And God Abandons Thee
by Lizzosaurus
Summary: Russia cannot make his choice. Bloody Sunday, 1905. (yeah, the rusliet Trope Fic done my way)


Russia was afraid.

Whether he was afraid for the people behind or before the line of soldiers standing shoulder-by-shoulder in the courtyard, he couldn't tell, but he'd spent his morning watching this crowd of workers make their way towards the palace in droves of thousands, escorted by a priest and the cross, and the deepest of his anxieties belonged to the latter party.

Lithuania's quiet report that the tzar was taking tea did little to ease his worry, so he affixed his attention to the window in ignorance of his servant, hoping him to depart.

Centuries of effort and war and work-weary nights, wasted.

It seemed as though the spirits, or God perhaps, or maybe fate alone had _destined_ him to suffer, but this time he could not bear the cup. Not when his own people were to blame for the dismantling of his fragile and well-earned peace. Not when his own people couldn't see that everything he did was for their protection and assurance in the world, with bread and wine to weigh their stomachs and security from enemies for possibly the first time in his memory.

Now, enemies came from within.

So when Russia took down the old musket from above the mantle in the parlor, he certainly hadn't intended - hadn't even imagined - that blood would be spilled.

"I'm sure they'll clear out by tomorrow…"

His dear Lithuania smiled and held out a hand as Russia passed on his return to the window, and he declined the kindness and his words with a dismissive frown. When he spoke, he addressed no one, for the words were intended for no one but himself. One hand worked at the stiff, long-unused locks of the pane's hinges.

"Why is it that nothing goes right…? Why do they always end up hating me?"

He could see Lithuania drawing closer from the side of his vision, but he chose to ignore him as before, wishing desperately for him to leave.

"Everyone says it's my fault, my fault. I've endured it for centuries."

His people's demands contorted before him, and where he once heard requests for audience with the tzar, now he only heard threats to kill him. Where he swore he had seen the famed petition in the right hand of the priest claiming peace, now he only saw only a clenched fist and a promise of destruction.

Tears flowed hot with betrayal down his cheeks, and he made no effort to stop them.

Instead he flung open the window, the velvet curtains fluttering behind him like the wings of a great trapped bird and Lithuania's surprised exclamation lost to the wailing, freezing cold that stole his breath away.

"Lithuania?"

He turned and searched the man's face for an answer, a direction. There was no anger or fear or approval or even disgust in those steady eyes, only concern. He was watching in silence now, well out of the way.

"Lithuania, we don't want children," he cut off to swallow back the sick in his throat. "We don't want children who can't play nice, right?"

If Lithuania answered him, he didn't hear it, for the voices were swelling now, to a feverish, hysterical pitch, and he couldn't find the strength within him to push down his own agonizing horror.

But when he aimed the musket, gunmetal colder in his hands than the wind buffeting his body, he didn't see the fiendish, hateful radicals that had been tormenting his mind and his council - not just this day but for years - before the muzzle.

_Both eyes open._

He saw men, women, children. Neighborhood elders and railroad workers and laundrywomen and sweepers and schoolboys all looking towards the palace as the last sacred pillar on their pilgrimage for freedom.

He saw _his people_. His own aspirations for peace and hope manifested in the flesh, crying out for equality and fair speech as he had never been able to do for himself, dumb as he was with languid complacency.

A jarring _bang!_ resounded through the courtyard, and he was shaken from his reverent pause, dropping the gun before his finger could even curl around the trigger.

The soldiers were firing.

The voices truly _did_ contort into screams then, as the warning shots gave way to killing ones; the cacophony of frightened wails was drowned out by gunshots and bodies hitting the cobblestones and all at once red sprayed across Russia's vision and white hot agony pierced his chest.

He was only vaguely aware of someone wrenching him away from the window, of the sickening silence that followed when the glass was sealed and the curtains secured over the grisly scene.

The silence lasted mere moments before his ears were invaded anew, and with a vengeance this time, crawling into his brain and screeching and stabbing until he collapsed to the floor with the force of it all. He didn't even know he was crying out until he felt Lithuania's thin hands clasping over his own ears, felt those arms take hold of Russia's heaving, shuddering body and fold him up against his chest.

"I don't want to die!"

There was an underwater sound against his ear but he couldn't surface for air long enough to hear whatever Lithuania was trying to tell him.

"Please don't let them kill me, please!"

The shooting outside seemed to last for hours, and Lithuania's shaking hands - though they pressed hard against his ears - were worthless in blocking the hideous din, so Russia began to rake his fingernails down his face and neck with the intent of drawing blood instead, and clawing the voices out of his head by force.

Spittle flecked his lips, eyes lolling, and he couldn't breathe he couldn't move there was only the same caterwauling excruciating reeling sickness.

The next words to come from Lithuania were clearer, and there were other shapes around him by then, and while he could only make out the vague forms of their figures, the presence was a marginal and momentary distraction - a stark relief from his feverish torment.

"Make him…he's hurting himself… laudanum in drawer…"

A bitter taste flooded his tongue and his mind decided that he was tasting blood. The blood was hot, it was sticky and invasive and coated the roof of his mouth and rose up the back of his throat until he began to retch. He could feel the bullets in his chest and his arms and legs and everywhere, _everywhere_-

The world blinked black.

* * *

January 9, 1905 is the infamous Bloody Sunday (Kravavoye Voskresenye) massacre that took place after a party of approx. 100,000 peaceful demonstrators seeking Tzar Nicolas II's audience led by priest Georgy Gapon were fired on in St. Petersburg. Over 100 marchers were killed and thousands more injured.

Although Hima's Bloody Sunday webcomic depicts crowds of angry protestors, they came armed only with religious icons, petitions for reform, and paintings of Nicolas II, who wasn't in the palace at the time of the demonstration.

I think the contrast fits Russia's dynamic as a character, and I hope it showed in the fic!


End file.
